


A Practical Demonstration

by YeeeCawww



Category: RWBY
Genre: Beacon Academy, F/M, Future AU, Marriage, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeeeCawww/pseuds/YeeeCawww
Summary: A wave of excited, frantic murmuring spread across the viewing stands as, all at once, the students of Beacon realized that the Professors Arc were using their practical demonstration to flirt.
Relationships: Jaune Arc/Blake Belladonna
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	A Practical Demonstration

The first Battle Class of a new class at Beacon was always an amusing affair – at least so far everyone in the school except the new First Years were concerned. It was almost ritualistic at this point, and the upper years had, more than once, made a betting pool out of setting their watches for the newbies’ realizations. It was, as even the teachers would be able to tell you, a three-step process.

When they arrived, fresh faced, naïve and wonderstruck, they would be herded to Initiation by Headmistress Goodwitch and Deputy Headmaster Arc. There, they would talk amongst themselves as to the unbelievable coincidence that Beacon Academy – hallowed for the heroes and heroines it had produced only a couple decades ago – presently had a Deputy Headmaster named _Arc._ A blond one, at that. Wrapped up in their nerves and fears and worries regarding initiation as they were, the children would – almost unilaterally – fail to accept the notion that their Professor Arc could possibly be _the Arc_. Arc wasn’t exactly a common last name, but there were plenty of them, and surely _the Arc_ had better things to do with his time than teach snot-nosed brats how to fight.

There was always one hormonal boy that put forth the notion _the Arc_ was probably off somewhere living the life of luxury with five cars, three houses and two wives. Sometimes he had six cars.

Then life would proceed. Initiation was always handled on a Friday so that the new partners and Teams could get to know one another a little before the stress of their workload began to bear down on them. Monday morning would arrive, and, feeling on top of the world for having survived Initiation – which would _surely_ be the hardest challenge of the year – they would trudge into Grimm Studies, which was always the first class of the day for First Years. If the First Years noticed or had anything to say about the fact that there were always one or two upper years spread out amongst the chairs with expectant, already amused looks on their faces, all of them were too afraid of those same upper years to say anything.

Then their Professor would walk in. She was, as most boys and some girls would tell you in a heartbeat, a very attractive woman. On the shorter side, she rose to just over 5’3” on her own merits before her additional assets saw fit to add an extra three inches to her height – those assets being two pointed, black cat ears, the left of which had a single, circular golden piercing in it. She dressed herself in the same attire that had made her famous; an ankle length white coat, opened to show off a black top that hugged her neck up to her chin while at the same time exposing her midriff and grayscale pants adorned with a variety of pockets and zippers.

“My name is Professor Belladonna-Arc,” she would say, and then she would pause, her own little amused smile playing on her lips as the entire First Year class’ brains stalled. The upper years would, as always, snap a few photos of the more amusingly dazed faces before nodding respectfully to their Professor and departing from the room. After which, Professor Blake Belladonna-Arc would, expecting the First Years to have revived themselves by now, finish her sentence saying, “Welcome to First Year Grimm Studies.”

Not much would get done in that first class, something the Professor was used to after almost thirteen years teaching at the Academy. Blake always used the first day to lecture on the nature of Grimm Studies itself and why it was important information that could and would save their lives one day. If she was feeling particularly generous, she might spice the lecture up with a real-world example from one of her own many adventures, but never in excess. She had been very adamant that she would not be a Port when Glynda had offered her the job.

As for her students, they took paltry notes, their minds whirring. It was unsurprising to everyone in the school that neither Professor had been recognized on sight. The Salem Crisis had been years ago after all. Gone were the days of constant media coverage and interviews and talk show specials. The Heroes of Remnant had largely retired from the public eye, though most of them were still actively Hunting. Certainly, though they had all known their names – even the updated, married names a few of them carried – and they knew well enough to know that it was certainly no coincidence Professor Blake Belladonna-Arc was teaching Grimm Studies in the same school that a Deputy Headmaster Arc was teaching Battle Class. Blake Belladonna-Arc was _the Belladonna-Arc_ and that, by extension, meant that their Deputy Headmaster was not just Professor Arc, but _the Arc_.

The week that followed Blake’s first class was always an exercise in patience the likes of which each First Year class had never had to face before. Beacon was exceptionally strict about the scheduling of its classes on the first week of term, at least as far as the First Years were concerned. Every class operated on the same schedule it would for the duration of the school year with the exception of Battle Class. Fearing that aspiring Huntsman and Huntresses would arrive at Beacon with a preconceived notion that all there was to being a Huntsman or Huntress was to punch things, the school did its best to dispel such notions by ensuring the First Years received large amounts of theory and little practical. The First Years’ first Battle Class would not be until Friday afternoon, after which they would have it three times a week on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Thus, with nothing else to occupy their time – and foo on anyone that suggested they use the time to focus on their academics – the students would turn to the only outlet they had; gossip. Word-of-Mouth became gospel in the ears of the First Years as story after story about the Arcs – and occasionally other Heroes of Remnant – were passed around the tables. _“I heard they killed a Deathstalker and a Nevermore during their Initiation.” “Professor Belladonna-Arc fought the whole White Fang at Haven and won.” “Did you know that Professor Arc once took out a Nuckelavee all by himself!?” “Professor Arc once slept with the whole of Team RWBY in one. Night.”_ Some stories were truer than others, but most – certainly not all, though, as Jaune was quick to point out to his wife when that last one began to spread around the school _again_ – found their basis in facts that were simply too boring for teenagers and so had been exacerbated. It could have been worse for the duo. Most stories about the infamous Yang Xiao Long included the 'definitive' fact that her robotic arm had thermonuclear capabilities. The minds of children were wonderful in their delirium.

Of course, when talking failed – or when the validity of certain stories was called into question – the First Years would dig up what they could from the library. Most of the Heroes of Remnant’s story was public knowledge, and much of it had happened in the public eye. There _were_ photos of what was very clearly their Faunus Professor standing down an army of White Fang extremists, just as surveillance footage from Teams RWBY and JNPR’s Initiation had forever immortalized the image of Ruby Rose beheading a rather enormous Nevermore. Pictures dug up from old resources would be passed around. Most of the boys thought the one of Professor Arc ferally bearing his teeth at some unknown enemy while dripping blood and viscera was particularly awesome, but most of those same boys would concede the image of Professor Belladonna-Arc flipping gracefully over a psychotic looking scorpion Faunus, her blade flashing out to bite into the man’s arm was just as cool. The fact that their female Professor’s outfit at the time had been torn to nearly nonexistent shreds certainly had no effect on their enjoyment of the picture, they staunchly maintained. Still, there was one picture that seemed to inordinately excite the First Year class for reasons none of their pubescent, overly-hormonal brains could seem to quantify.

It was, at face value, rather less dramatic than the previous photos, but a closer glance from anyone would inform them of a different, altogether more fascinating sense of drama. Clearly taken in the middle of a battle, it depicted their two Professors, both twenty years younger, in the middle of a city street. In the background, three Beowolves were crouched low to the ground, and everyone was certain that there were a multitude of other Grimm stalking around the duo off camera. None of the other Heroes of Remnant were depicted in the photo. It was just Professor Belladonna-Arc – who then would have just been Blake Belladonna – pressed back-to-back with her future husband. If she had worn a coat at the time, it had been either discarded or destroyed and this picture found her in a similar black top to the one she wore now, albeit with more exposed skin. Her pants were also black, and she was not wearing the bow that early Beacon-Era photos of her always included. Her weapon, _Gambol Shroud_ was held tightly in her hand and the industrial strength ribbon attached to it had been captured here in the middle of a graceful arc through the air. As for Jaune Arc, he seemed to be leaning heavily on Blake in the photo, his shield held limply in his left arm, as if he were too weak to lift it. His sword though – the infamous _Crocea Mors_ – was up and ready. It was the couple’s eyes, however, that properly captured the story of the image. They were alive with delight, visibly glittering even through a photograph twenty years in the future.

With this image held tightly in almost all of their hands – and certainly all of their minds – the First Year class arrived to their first Battle Class with thumping, excited hearts. By now, much of the school had gotten their kicks laughing at the First Years’ amazement, and more than a few of them had made a tidy sum of money of the betting pool. This was to be the finale of their yearly entertainment. After today – whatever the First Years may think – the novelty of who their Professors were would swiftly wear off. They wouldn’t be Blake Belladonna-Arc who personally led the siege of Salem-controlled Mantle to free the Faunus imprisoned there, or Jaune Arc, the Golden Knight of Beacon who had broken the walls of Grimm that had controlled the Academy since the Fall. They would be Professor Belladonna-Arc who assigned them mountains of homework so immense that they were _always_ behind and Professor Arc who ran them just hard enough that their muscles were at their sorest for the next class _every single time._ As such, it had become something of a tradition among the upper years – and even a few of the staff – to attend this first Battle Class of the First Year semester. Much of the Fourth Year class was in attendance, almost filling up half of the training room stands on their own, and a handful of Teams from the Second and Third Year classes had also come to watch the show. Professor Belladonna-Arc was there as well, talking casually to Headmistress Goodwitch. Other members of the staff were dotted throughout the room to enjoy these boys and girls’ first Battle Class.

And what a first Battle Class it had been. Professor Arc, who seemed far happier to grin roguishly at them than his wife had, had called each Team down into the practice ring individually. He had, had them come at him with everything they had, on the promise that if they could get his Aura in the red, they would receive passing grades in the class for the year. None of them had even come close. Few had even managed to get him to unsheathe his weapon. Fewer still had ever landed a hit. The lesson, he had told them, was that there is always someone better than you. There is always someone who can beat you. And there, is he would admit, always someone who could get lucky.

In the thirteen years he had been teaching at Beacon, two Teams had managed to do what no Team today had. They had successfully depleted Jaune’s into the red. “Those days,” he had told them with a happy grin and a happier tone, “were lessons for me.”

And that had been the class. He had promised them that next week would begin their work in earnest, and that he did not intend to take it easy on them. They would fight one-on-one, in pairs and as teams all in a series of wargames designed by one of the most renowned strategists on Remnant – Jaune Arc himself. And that was all well and good. The students were an odd mixture of excited and frightened for what Professor Arc had planned for them. Yet none of them could help noticing that their class still had a remaining twenty minutes scheduled.

And I mean… _come on._

Dozens of voices cried out at once in a thunderous cacophony of noise, each vying to be heard over the other. Jaune closed his eyes, wincing against the sudden noise, but he weathered it with a smile. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been assaulted with questions, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In days past, it had been positively embarrassing, but he’d become adept enough at answering them now that it hardly affected him. Blake had helped with that.

Prepared now to suffer the impromptu Q&A, Jaune gestured vaguely in the direction of an Auburn-haired girl who was practically vibrating in her seat. The girl squealed excitedly. “What’s your favorite thing about being a Huntsman!?”

“Well, Huntsman and Huntresses are just _cool_ , aren’t they?” Jaune smiled. Behind him, he recognized the sound of his wife snorting at him.

A silver-haired boy next. “What’s the biggest battle you’ve ever fought in?”

Jaune scratched at his beard. “With Grimm or with people?” The boy shrugged. “With Grimm, it was definitely when we reclaimed Beacon. Never seen so many. People, though, it’s gotta be the Battle of Atlas. You could make a small country out of the amount of people that were fighting that day.”

A blonde girl didn’t wait to be called on before she blurted out, “What was the hardest thing about the Salem Crisis!?”

“The food,” Jaune answered easily. A smile played on his face as he continued, “Yang Xiao Long is a terrible cook.” The crowd laughed. Jaune joined them. He knew he’d pay for that one. Someone – probably his _darling_ wife – was already informing Yang of what he’d just said. He’d have a very angry blonde to deal with the next time she was in Vale.

On and on the questions came. There seemed to be no limit to the curiosities of children. Had Jaune ever been _that_ curious? He certainly didn’t remember ever preoccupying himself with the thought of what underwear his Battle Class teacher wore. Frankly, he considered any teenager that possessed the confidence to do so to be exceptionally dangerous.

Jaune pointed out a blue-haired boy, noticeably smaller than most of his classmates. “This is the last question,” he told them, smiling at their groans.

The boy, though, surprised him. “I was wondering if we could have a practical demonstration, Professor.”

Jaune blinked, thrown off. He had expected another question about his grooming habits, to be honest. “A practical demonstration?” he echoed.

The boy nodded somewhat nervously. “I was hoping you could show us what a real Huntsman can do.” He looked around him, gesturing to the assembled hordes of students. “I mean, we’re all pretty skilled, but it’d be cool to see, like…what we’re working towards.”

A quiet murmur of agreement swept through the room. Jaune spied more than one student getting visibly excited by the idea. “You mean like a duel,” Jaune suggested, “between a Huntsman and a Huntress.”

The boy shrugged. “Or another Huntsman, yeah.”

Jaune nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his face as he spun on his heel. There was something mischievous in his smile that none of the students could place but that nonetheless excited them. And when he spoke, the noise they made was positively _ecstatic._ “Professor Belladonna-Arc, would you mind coming down to help me with this,” he smirked, “practical demonstration?”

From her seat several levels above him, Blake raised an eyebrow at him, amusement playing across her face. “Are you sure about that, Professor Arc?” she smiled at him. “I’d hate to undermine your authority in front of your new class.”

Jaune laughed, and so, his students felt fairly secure in doing the same. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Jaune’s smile did not so much as waver even as his wife’s became positively predatory. She stood gracefully, lacking in any of the clumsiness that still plagued Jaune in small bouts to this day. Jaune, seemingly aware of exactly how this was going to go down, drew his weapon from the scabbard that hung off the left side of his waist. It was not _Crocea Mors._ The legendary weapon of the Arc family – made even more famous by Jaune himself during the Salem Crisis – had long since been packed away, safe to rest until some future generation found another need of it. At a glance, there was no discernible difference between this blade and _Crocea Mors._ Both were double-sided longswords with a beveled center that came to a wicked point. But where _Crocea Mors’_ pommel was one of rich blue and deep gold, this blade’s cross guard was plain silver, albeit etched intricately with a variety of flowing patterns. The only adornment the sword had at all was the black ribbon cinched tightly around its pommel. More than one girl swooned at the romantic notion of exactly where Professor Arc had gotten that ribbon. This blade, one of his own creation, had served Jaune faithfully for over fifteen years now. He had named it _Clara Vitae_.

Blake sauntered calmly to the edge of the viewing stands, not so much as flinching as she casually stepped up onto the guard rail and allowed herself to fall forward off of it, flipping in the air to land lightly on her feet. She had barely even made a sound doing it. Jaune was less than ten feet away from her now, and she moved towards him smoothly, never losing that predatory, amused smile as she did. Her right hand snaked up into the folds of her coat, reaching behind her and withdrawing a weapon that every student in the auditorium could wag their tongues at. _Gambol Shroud_ had hardly changed at all over the course of the last twenty years. The only noticeable difference was the addition of a gold inlay just above the trigger on either side – two crescent moons atop each other.

She came to a stop no more than three feet away from him – closer by far than was normal for spars. Blake tilted her head. “Rules?”

Jaune shrugged and, to the delight of the crowd, the couple began to circle each other. They matched each step precisely, never taking or losing ground. If Jaune’s sword twitched so too did Blake’s. If Blake stepped particularly wide, so too did Jaune. The beginnings of a well-practiced, well-rehearsed dance. “Knockout, Aura depletion,” he said nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter. He smiled impishly, adding, “Tapouts,” almost as an afterthought.

Blake’s eyebrow arched. “Tapouts?” she repeated.

Jaune shrugged again. “In case you can’t keep up.” His smile widened. “You know how much Aura I have.”

Blake seemed unperturbed. “I’ve outlasted you before.”

A wave of excited, frantic murmuring spread across the viewing stands as, all at once, the students of Beacon realized that the Professors Arc were using their practical demonstration to _flirt_. Several girls and more than one boy swooned. From her position above them all, Goodwitch rolled her eyes

Then, in an instant, the fight began. There was no warning, no one exclaiming “Begin!”, no nothing. Blake moved so fast that the students couldn’t even see her, but they _heard_ the result of her attack as _Gambol Shroud_ collided with _Clara Vitae_ , and they saw the result of said attack as Jaune shoved against her. Blake anchored her feet, sliding back across the floor but never losing her footing until, as her momentum ran out, she twisted into a lithe backflip at the exact moment that Jaune swiped viciously for the place her head had only just occupied. Stood atop the flats of her hands, Blake twisted, rotating her legs at such a speed that they blurred, catching her husband on the side of his head with a vicious kick.

 _“Agh!”_ Jaune cried from shock more than anything else. His Aura had tanked the hit, registering as little more than a light shove. Blake wasn’t even wearing her steel-toed boots today. Still, the blow had caught him off guard and the momentum of it sent him stumbling away from. Blake righted herself, separating _Gambol Shroud’s_ base from the blade and firing a spray of bullets at him as she approached as rapidly and stable as she could. She knew Jaune well. He would take quick advantage of any upset to her balance.

Jaune didn’t even bother dodging. His Aura flared brightly as bullets pinged off his chest, and, for a moment, Jaune thought of striking a ‘Superman’ pose before he came to his senses. His students had wanted to see a practical fight between two genuine Huntsmen. He would not deny them that. He charged, twisting into a traditional tackle stance with his shoulder primed to connect viciously with her chest, right in the center of her balance. If he could get her off balance, the fight was as good as his.

Jaune had the warning of a breeze around his head to tell him that she had outmaneuvered him, before he felt her hand grip tightly to his head as she flipped over him, using his cranium as an anchor. Blake came down in a crouch behind him and, having reconnected the two parts of her weapon in the air, swiped viciously at his back. Jaune knew better than to allow that to happen. _Gambol Shroud_ was minutely serrated – almost invisibly so to the naked eye – so as to tear into flesh or Aura. He twisted, angling his left arm so as to take the blow.

The crowd gasped in shock…

…only to scream in joy as Blake’s blade slid off of the extendable shield that had grown out of his arm. It was smaller by far than the shield that had accompanied _Crocea Mors_ , but Jaune had gone too long with a sword-and-shield combo to give up the practice entirely. _Clara Vitae’s_ shield was designed mainly for parrying – useless in a firefight, but invaluable in swordplay such as this. Jaune delivered a vicious kick to his wife’s waist as the momentum of her strike against his shield carried her too far, and she stumbled away from him, gripping her stomach in pain.

She coughed once.

Jaune readied his stance, his shielded arm up and ready to intercept any of her blows, his sword arm more than prepared to counter her attacks. Blake rose to her full height again and likewise readied her blade. The fight was well and truly on.

They met in a clash of steel that sang loudly all the way to the back of the stands. Blake kicked, and Jaune punched. Jaune ducked, and Blake flipped. Her strikes were intercepted easily by his well-defined arms and martial prowess. His blows were evaded with the liquidity of water. His fists and feet grazed her by inches. The heaviest of her blows bounced off of him like a tennis ball of concrete. Their Auras were still steadily in the green, and the student body realized with a start that it didn’t look as if they’d be leaving any time soon.

They had not expected this, in all honesty. Whatever the blue haired boy had foreseen when he had asked his teacher for this, it had been a quick, stylish affair. This was neither of those things. Oh, Blake had plenty of style in her movements, lithely ducking through his blows with feline grace, but Jaune had none of that, preferring to stand as stock still as possible, tanking hits. When he moved, it was done practically, expending very little energy as he allowed her strikes to miss him by mere inches. This was not just a fight between two exceptionally skilled Huntsmen. This was a fight between two exceptionally skilled Huntsmen _who knew each other like the back of their hand_. There was no move Jaune could make that Blake had not already anticipated, nor was there any strike Blake could throw that Jaune had not long ago foreseen. In combination, it probably made them a nigh unstoppable duo, but in combat, it made for a slow, if graceful, war of attrition.

A majority of the First Years put their money on Jaune. There was no slight intended to Blake or her skills, but surely in a war of attrition, the man with one of the highest Aura pools on record was sure to come out the victor. Still, there were those who disagreed, sure that Blake had some trick up her sleeve that would as of yet catch her husband off guard.

For several long minutes, this did not seem to be the case. The couple continued to trade blows, balancing the loss of Aura almost down to an exact percentage. Blake hit him far more often than he hit her, but the fact remained that Jaune’s Aura pool made such hits practically worthless. In contrary, Jaune seemed to hit like a truck, taking off large chunks of her Aura with every hit he landed.

Then, quite out of nowhere, something shifted. Up till now, Blake had expended the bare minimum of effort to dodge his strikes, the better for allowing her to reengage him in an instant. This time, though, as Jaune lanced out with a short but powerful stab, Blake pirouetted, twisting around so that she came up facing his back and, before Jaune could rescue himself from the momentum of his strike, Blake made her move. Withdrawn from some unknown location on her person, Blake lashed out with a thin black ribbon, wielding it like a lasso. It seemed to curve in the air, twisting upon itself, and it wasn’t until it came to land perfectly around Jaune’s neck that anyone in the audience realized what she had done. Jaune gagged, reflex provoking him to reach up with shield hand to pull at the industrial strength ribbon that was currently cutting off his airflow. Blake, knowing better than to challenge his grip, raised her foot, twisted the ribbon around her ankle and brought the appendage back down viciously, pulling her choking husband to the ground as she did. He gagged louder, audibly choking against the strain. A glance at the display monitor showed no drain on his Aura, but then, he had also said knockouts were permissible as well.

The students traded wide-eyed looks. Did Professor Belladonna-Arc intend to choke her husband out on the training room floor?

She did not. “Tapout, Jaune,” she advised sweetly, her smile just as predatory as it had been before the start of the duel.

 _“Hhggghh,”_ Jaune choked in response, struggling against the ribbon. He flailed wildly with his sword arm, seemingly trying to strike at her but unable to do so through his constriction.

“I’m waiting,” the cat Faunus all but sang.

So were the students. They leaned forward in their seats, eyes wide. No one dared to breathe.

Jaune brought his fist up. _Thunk. Thunk._

Blake released him an instant, untying the ribbon from her leg in a single smooth motion that simultaneously released the pressure on her husband’s neck. He gasped for air, pulling desperately at the ribbon in a bid to free his neck from its grip. Blake only laughed, stalking around to his front side again and offering him her hand up. He took it, allowing her to pull him up to full height, and he only smiled at her – more than a little red in the face – as she began to untie the ribbon fully from his neck.

Let it never be said that Blake Belladonna-Arc was a paragon of propriety and maturity, however much she liked to claim as much to her husband. She knew that was she was about to do next was not all proper. She knew that it would set tongues wagging throughout the First Year class. She knew that Goodwitch would certainly give them both a stern lecture after the fact. She knew it would probably lead to a few uncomfortable questions from the First Years in her next class. She didn’t care.

A mischievous smirk on her face, Blake pulled _Gambol Shroud’s_ ribbon as taught as could be around the back of Jaune’s neck and pulled him close. Jaune, who by now had worked out exactly what she intended to do, matched her smirk with one of his own and leaned willingly into the chaste but lingering kiss she pulled him into.

A series of whoops and hollers filled the auditorium, some from voices she recognized. There was a particular Fourth Year girl Blake recognized the wolf whistle of – she had been very persistent in her interest in Blake’s love life over the course of her career at Beacon – that was going to get an extra large mountain of homework during the next class. Jaune pulled away from her, grinning and she did likewise, a laugh bubbling from her lips. She unwound him, releasing him from her hold. He didn’t let her go anywhere, though, catching hold of her wrist and pulling her into a tight sideways hug, his arm wrapped around her waist. She didn’t fight him.

“It should be noted, students,” he grinned, “that very few real world fights end like that.”


End file.
